On the Sale by Auction of Keats Love-Letters

These are the letters which Endymion

To one he loved in secret and apart,

And now the brawlers of the

Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,

Aye! for each separate pulse of passion

The merchant's price!

I think they love not

Who break the crystal of a poet's heart,

That small and sickly eyes may glare or gloat.

Is it not said, that many years ago,

In a far Eastern town some soldiers

With torches through the midnight, and

To wrangle for mean raiment, and to

Dice for the garments of a wretched man,

Not knowing the God's wonder, or his woe?